Dragon Age: Knights of the Frost
by Autobot-Outcast
Summary: Deep in the lower Frostbacks lies a small, unassuming Fereldan village that has not contacted their bann for six hundred years, even during the Orlesian invasion or the Blight. This quirk has got the attention of both sides of the Mage-Templar War, and the Veiled Valley has a force of its own who don't much like outsiders... Takes place in 9:39 Dragon, about four months before DA:I
1. Chapter 1: Valley

I made a thing. I don't know if it's a very _good_ thing, but it's a thing.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Valley**

"So, what've we got?"

Darin held the stock-mounted spyglass to his eye with one arm, leaning it on the other.

"Stiffnecks," he said. Maybe a few dozen."

"Any bluebloods?" asked Colin.

"Nah," muttered Darin. "There's some archers up the back, though. Ten or so." He held the spyglass out to Colin. "Three left, up twenty," he said.

His colleague took the glass and peered at the specified grid square.

"Yep, I got 'em," he said. "They're coming, at quick-march."

"Sound the alarm," said Darin. "I'll keep watch."

Colin passed the spyglass back and unslung his bow, nocking an arrow and firing over the rise behind their observation post. The shot went arcing low over the tree line, towards the valley the two were sworn to protect.

They were about to have company.

* * *

"Did you see that, Commander?" asked Ser Aethric.

"See what?"

"I saw something flicker over the trees."

Knight-Commander Greagoir, the leader of Ferelden's Templars, considered. Ser Aethric was new to the order - he'd only said his vows a few months previously - but he had sharp eyes and a decent mind. He didn't know what he'd seen, though, and it was best not to overreact.

"Close ranks," Greagoir ordered, "but do not ready shields."

His men responded with speed that put most men to shame, forming a neat five-abreast column with the his ten archers at the back in a matter of seconds.

"Forward," he ordered.

Sixty Templars followed him down the road, cautious but feeling they were ready for anything. They were wrong.

* * *

Thom stood in the road and waited.

He was surprisingly bad at waiting, for a knight-captain. He'd mutter, or pace up and down, or occasionally come to attention before falling back into a relaxed slump.

He heard a distant clanking sound.

"Theron, Marc, ready up," he ordered. His sergeants gave brief nods before fading into the snowy scrub beside the path.

Roughly a minute later the first Templar came over the hill. He wore no helmet, and as he got closer Thom made out several features.

Their leader was well-built, wearing heavy Templar plate like it weighed nothing. His face was lined with both age and stress, though, and his beard was more steel-grey than...whatever it had once been. His step was sure and confident.

Thom put on a casual air, just to be contrary.

He waited until the Templars were close enough, then held out a hand, palm out. The international signal for 'stop'. In case that wasn't enough, he also shouted, "halt!"

The Templar leader stuck out an arm and his forces froze instantly. _Well-drilled_, Thom thought. _But that doesn't always mean well-trained_.

Their leader continued forwards until the two stood a few metres apart.

"I am Knight-Commander Greagoir of Kinloch Hold," he said, "who am I speaking to?"

"Knight-Captain Thom of the Frost."

Greagoir looked Thom up and down. "Who exactly do you serve?" he asked. "You're too heavily armed for a town guard, and I'm pretty sure Ferelden has no army nearby."

It was a fairly obvious statement. Thom's tabard bore a sigil unused by any bann, arl, or teyrn, and no militia would equip its soldiers with the mail-backed heavy plate he was wearing. Nor would they spring for a sword - maces, polearms or spears were far more common among self-funding militias.

Thom debated how much to allow - the Valley's safety was paramount, and the Templars were an inherently unstable element. He decided he'd follow his orders, plus a little creative interpretation.

"You'll follow me" he said. "You'll camp on the valley's outskirts. If you're polite, we might let you in. If not..."

He made a hand gesture and nearly thirty soldiers appeared around the path. Many had crossbows or arrows trained, and the rest were heavily armed. Theron was leaning nonchalantly on the hilt of his greatsword while Marc had a bladed mace leaning threateningly over his shoulder.

"...we'll have to be a bit less than polite ourselves. Sound good?"

* * *

Greagoir and Thom led the way up the hill to the valley in silence. After trying twice to find out who or what this 'frost' was that Thom served, Greagoir had given up asking questions.

To pass the time, the Knight-Commander started doing a tactical assessment of their escorts. Each was wearing armour, light plate with chain or scale behind it at the very least. There was an...eclectic mix of armament on display, though - while the archers tended to wear lighter armour there was no other rhyme or reason to the weapons the soldiers carried.

The only identifying mark they wore was a short, sleeveless tabard - deep blue, with a crest on the front and back; a white mountain behind a pale blue snowflake. Frost. Simple and to the point.

Greagoir thought about the distance they'd covered since the ambush. Unless there was a guard of this size out there at all times - unlikely - then his escort had made this journey incredibly fast to intercept his Templars.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when Thom tapped him on the shoulder. "We're nearly there," the mysterious knight said, "and you might want a moment when you see it."

Greagoir focused on the view ahead as he stepped over the hill's crest and saw the valley.

Thom was right. He needed a moment.

The valley was breathtaking. It was surrounded by snowy mountains, but the white abruptly ended at the valley rim. Beyond it were lush green or golden fields, leading down the slope towards a small village in the centre. The cottages were stone and thatch, and looked lived-in yet well-maintained. The road he was standing on wound down the slope, through the village and then up the other side, leading to the massive metal gates of a fortress.

The fortress looked far less inviting. It was made of dark grey stone, and had massive spikes of ice adorning the battlements and towers. More ice coated the base of each wall, making them look thicker than they were. The fortress looked spiky, even predatory, lurking beyond the village, waiting to spring forward without warning. Even at this distance, Greagoir could see the occasional flash of silver from a knight on the walls or at the gate.

Greagoir could have focused on the village having an army nobody knew about. He could have focused on the fortress that wasn't supposed to be there. But what Greagoir's mind immediately noticed was the weather.

"It's spring down there," he said after a minute or so. "And some of it looks like summer. Out here, it's the beginning of winter." Greagoir turned to face Thom, looking the cavalier knight in the eye. "This is magic," he said, gravely, "and since I didn't let any of _our_ mages do it, that means an Apostate did."

Thom very carefully did not react, but some of his soldiers tensed.

"Who is in charge around here?" Greagoir demanded. "The mayor? Or is there a local Chantry?"

"You'll want to talk to Commander Dwynn," Thom replied. "But I'm afraid we can't let sixty armed outsiders into the valley, even if they ask nicely."

Greagoir stepped closer to the cocky young officer. "Then what do you propose?" he said in a tone best described as 'hostile'.

"You and four men, follow me up to the Keep," said Thom. "The rest of you, make camp a short way down the hill, off to one side of the path. Just like we agreed."

Greagoir stepped back and weighed his options. Whoever these knights were, they had magical help. On the other hand, they weren't against him looking around, just cautious. He was bound by Chantry law to investigate the matter, and they were giving him the opportunity. They also had his men surrounded, and they looked well-trained - any attempt to force the issue though his Chantry-given authority would likely end in more blood than he'd prefer.

The Knight-Commander sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "I don't have much choice," he said reluctantly. "Lead on."

* * *

AN: Constructive criticism is welcome, especially with regard to keeping Greagoir in character.


	2. Chapter 2: Icebound

Let the exposition commence!

* * *

**Chapter 2: Icebound**

Cadmus, son of Conrad, Captain-General of the Guard, Master of the Frost Knights, Silver Hand, Eyes of the Night Watch and Master of Tides, banged his fist on the table. "Commander, you _can't_ be serious!" he exclaimed.

"I am deadly serious."

"You're going to allow sixty armed hostiles to waltz into the valley?" demanded Cadmus incredulously.

"Yes." Dwynn, Commander of the Frost, was a man of few words.

"What in the Maker's name are you thinking?"

"He's thinking," said Sergeant-Major Narada Bellac, "that if we can pacify the Templars then we can resolve this without bloodshed." She crossed her arms, causing the plate to clink.

"She's right," added Knight-Captain Eron. "If the Templars mean well, we can come to a compromise. If not, well..." He mimed something tumbling down a mountain slope onto his other hand.

The four were seated around a heavy table of dark wood. When Cadmus had hit it, his gauntlet hadn't even scratched the carved surface.

After a few seconds of thought, Cadmus made a conciliatory hand gesture. "All right," he said, "I withdraw my objection. But I'd like it on record that-"

There was a heavy series of knocks on the door.

"Enter," said Dwynn.

Thom stepped through the door and took his seat - the only empty one.

"The stiffnecks are here," he said as he took off his helm and brushed his longish black hair out of his eyes. "Their boss, with a few others. Gave his name as Greagoir."

"A Knight-Captain?" asked Narada.

Thom shook his head. "A Knight-Commander."

Dwynn stood up, and the rest of his council rushed to do the same.

"Shouldn't keep him waiting," he rumbled.

* * *

Greagoir was growing frustrated. He had a lot of mysteries and few answers. He was on his guard, but he didn't have any idea where an attack might come from. He ran through a series of Templar mental defence exercises to pass the time.

Next to him, Ser Jay and Ser Gareth were looking around, clearly impressed by the fortress they stood within, while Ser Brandon and Ser Herry looked bored.

They were in a long hall, with a raised dais at the far end bearing what was clearly a throne. There were sixteen more Frost Knights stationed along the walls, watching Greagoir and his men with the same passive caution he'd use if he were on guard duty.

The door Thom had stepped through swung open again and the cavalier knight stepped back in, followed by a brown-haired knight with a greatsword, a female dwarf, and an armoured elf carrying-

_Mage staff._

Greagoir's hand had dropped to his sword hilt before he finished the thought, just on reflex. In response, the knights along the walls all snapped around to look at him, the spears they carried shifting slightly.

The new arrivals acted like they hadn't noticed. Thom headed towards him as the others left the room through a different door.

"The Commander will see you now," Thom told him. "Only knights use his rank - everyone else is to address him as 'Lord Dwynn' or 'My Lord'. He will offer you a drink, or food. This will confer the two-way promise of hospitality during your visit. Accept."

Greagoir, forcing his sword arm to relax, acknowledged with a nod.

"He's stern and stoic, but honest," Thom continued. "He's hard to impress. Be honest with him, and don't be surprised if he's quiet."

"Thank you," said Greagoir. He signalled his men to stay where they were, then moved down the hall towards the throne.

The Commander beat him there.

For the life of him, Greagoir couldn't work out how the Commander moved so quietly and quickly in full plate. He was easily the tallest man Greagoir had ever seen (not counting the Qunari who'd been with the Hero of Fereldan), and as broad and well-built as Greagoir himself. His armour had the telltale sheen of silverite. However, very little of the man himself could be seen. His helm covered most of his face - only the eyes were visible, a sharp and icy blue. He wore a longer tabard and a waist-length cape, both lined with thick fur.

He carried a sheathed sword in his left hand, and slid it into an almost invisible slot in the side of the throne as he sat down.

Everything about this man said _dangerous_ to Greagoir's instincts.

The Lord of the Frost spent a few seconds looking at Greagoir. _Assessing_, the Templar thought.

"Welcome, Templar."

Greagoir made the smallest bow politeness allowed.

"Food? Drink?"

"Milk with bread and honey, please," said Greagoir. It was an old favourite, from back before he joined the order.

Lord Dwynn made a gesture, and a knight Greagoir hasn't noticed was there ducked through a door and vanished, returning less than a minute later with a wooden plate bearing a small loaf of warm, fresh-baked bread, a small bowl of honey, a knife and a cup of milk.

The Knight-Commander took the proffered plate, tore off a piece of the bread, dipped it into the honey, and ate it, washing it down with a sip of the milk. It was better than he got at the circle - living on a lake had its drawbacks.

He then passed the plate to each of his Templars. Dwynn waited quietly until they'd finished before he spoke again.

"Be at peace here, Templar," he said. "Tell me why you crossed our borders."

Greagoir took a second to order his thoughts before replying.

"This valley is part of Fereldan," he said. "Specifically, it falls under the Westmarch bannorn. Yet in several centuries of war, including two Blights and an invasion from Orlais, this village has not sent a request to the Bann. Not one."

It was hard to tell, but Dwynn _might_ have raised an eyebrow.

"My company and I," Greagoir continued, "are among the few - despite the split from the Chantry, we still hold to our duty to _all_ people in our region. We have not abandoned our posts to go apostate-hunting like brigands. We came across this...odd quirk when we were asked to help a young boy with new mage powers in Snowdrop village. I decided to investigate."

"Big company for scouting," Dwynn grunted.

"I had no idea what we'd find here. The village could have been buried by snow, or become a bandit haven, or been full of darkspawn. From outside, there was no way to tell."

"And now you know," said Dwynn. "What now?"

"There are mages here," Greagoir replied, his tone neutral. "Among your knights. And someone's messing with the weather."

Dwynn nodded. "Good eyes," he rumbled. "Most don't spot that."

Greagoir locked eyes with The Lord of the Frost. "Well?" he demanded.

Dwynn let several seconds go by.

"Long explanation," he said. "Best if someone shows you around."

The brown-haired knight from earlier stepped back into the room.

"Cadmus, any candidates?"

The knight nodded. "I'll ask Knight-Ensign Thess if he wants the job."

"Good choice," said Dwynn. "Adjourned."

The Commander of the Frost Knights then stood up, sword back in hand, and swept out of the room before Greagoir could get another word in.

* * *

The sparring field was set against the back walls of the fortress. Soldiers wielding all kinds of weapons were fighting straw dummies, wooden posts or each other. Greagoir didn't recognise some of the weapons being used.

Cadmus, who was leading him around, made a beeline for one particular bout.

Both combatants were armoured in only brigandines and helms, meaning they were confident their opponent wouldn't hit them accidentally. One fought with the usual Ferelden shield and arming sword combination, while her opponent fought with a hand-and-a-half sword.

The two were circling each other warily. The shield-bearer made the first move, feinting with the sword and going in for a shield bash. The swordsman stepped past the blow and swung at his opponent's exposed neck.

Greagoir watched as the shield-bearer ducked the blow and raised her own weapon. The two swords met with a clash, and then the moment was passed and the two combatants stood apart again, circling each other.

There was no breath wasted on taunts or banter. They were too focused.

The swordsman made the move this time, stepping to his left and driving forward. His opponent had her shield up before he ever got close, her sword raised to horizontal near her shoulder.

He surprised her, though, by driving his body into the shield to off-balance her instead of attacking directly. She drove her blade down at him, but he grabbed his own sword blade and, wielding it like a quarterstaff, hooked his crossguard around hers and disarmed her.

She came around to find him holding his blade steady, pointing at her head.

"Bout over!" someone shouted. "Knight-Ensign Thess wins!"

Thess picked up his opponent's sword from where it had fallen and passed it back. The two sheathed their blades and shook hands.

"Good fight, Summer," he said.

"Nice half-swording, Thess," she replied. "Your hand all right? I felt it jerk a little."

"It's fine, the glove caught it."

They gave each other a small bow and stepped out of the practice circle. Thess noticed Cadmus standing nearby and came running over.

"Uncle! Uncle!" he called. Then he noticed Greagoir standing behind the older knight. He slowed to a walk as he approached.

"Knight-Captain," he said with a salute. "I didn't realise we had a visitor."

"It's fine, Thess," said Cadmus. "This isn't _extremely_ official. This is Knight-Commander Greagoir, a Templar from outside the valley. He doesn't know much about us. Would you mind running him through an orientation?"

"Yes ser," said Thess, grinning slightly.

"Good lad," said Cadmus.

* * *

After taking a few minutes to towel off and put his armour on, Thess spent a few hours leading Greagoir around the fortress, pointing things out and telling him the history of the Frost Knights.

During the latter stages of the Third Blight, the Veiled Valley had become a shelter for refugees. The bann at the time had ignored the missives they sent him about darkspawn crossing the mountains from Orlais, particularly via the Deep Roads. As a result, the Knights agreed to give up any life outside the valley in exchange for the authority to defend the people living there.

Over time the residents began deferring to the Frost Knights over their bann more and more, first with enforcing law and order, then with resolving disputes. Eventually it was agreed that the village would acknowledge the Commander of the Frost their local lord as long as the knights would defend them.

The knights had kept this duty for six hundred years.

Greagoir was a little surprised that such a community could exist. He was somewhat frustrated that the young knight was spending so much time on history before dealing with the magic issue, but it was moderately interesting stuff. Whenever he tried to advance the conversation, though, Thess would retaliate by plying him with questions about Fereldan outside the valley - Greagoir obliged him, in short bursts, but eventually decided patience might be more productive.

They visited room after room - the armoury, the forges, they all began to flow together after a while.

Eventually Thess began talking about the knights' culture and what it was like living here.

The knights did not use money amongst themselves, and weren't paid. However, the village provided them with everything they asked for (within reason) free of charge - being a knight meant you'd become a defender of the Veiled Valley, and were accorded a significant level of respect.

When Greagoir asked how the valley could possibly support the hundreds of soldiers in the keep as well as the villagers, Thess just laughed and said 'you'll see'.

Thess told him about the Tunnels. Dug deep under the Frostbacks behind the fortress, the Tunnels served as whatever was needed - a mine for metals, a storage area, overflow space for the barracks, or anything else. It probably wouldn't take much real excavating to connect them to the Deep Roads, if the mood took the Commander, but so far nobody had seen the need.

At the base of a large spiral staircase, running around the walls of a squat, wide tower, Thess halted.

"You're about to see our reaction to magic, Knight-Commander," he said. "It might be a bit of a surprise. Are you ready for that?"

"Finally," was Greagoir's only reply. He wasn't usually this surly, but this was the first time he'd ever met anyone but a priest able to spin a twenty-minute introduction into four hours of walking-tour exposition.

"Okay," said Thess apprehensively, before leading the way up the stairs.

The second they emerged from the floor into the room at the top, Greagoir gasped. If he hadn't been utterly sure it was impossible, he'd have sworn he was back in Kinloch Hold.

"Welcome to the Harrowing chamber," said Thess.

* * *

AN: I hope I'm not boring anyone. Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3: Surprises

In which there is conflict.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Surprises**

Greagoir looked over his surroundings again. Now that he was looking for them, he found subtle differences between this Harrowing chamber and his own.

It was wider, and made of different stone. There were three concentric circles on the floor, instead of the usual two. It was lit by braziers of a different design.

Thess watched Greagoir's face, but it gave nothing away.

"Why do _you_ have a Harrowing chamber?"

"I suppose that's as good a place to start as any," Thess said. "We handle the Harrowings for all valley-born mages."

"Why?" demanded Greagoir. "They should be sent to the Circle, where it's safe!"

"They'd never be back," said Thess. "They can't defend the valley from the Circle."

"But you're not Templars!" Greagoir countered. "You're not trained to handle this sort of thing."

"Actually, we are," said Thess. "Some of us, anyway. When the Knights were formed, the Templars from the local Chantry became our first knight-captains. They ensured the fortress had everything it needed to serve as a Circle, including the Harrowing chamber and the trained knights to use it."

"It's against Chantry law!" countered Greagoir.

"Ah," said Thess calmly. "I see." The young knight turned and looked Greagoir in the eyes. "Chantry law is not applicable here anywhere but the Chantry, with all due respect."

Greagoir stopped with his mouth agape. He took a step back in shock.

This was unheard of. Wherever the Chant went, the Chantry had authority to enforce their laws governing magic and heresy. That was the way things _were_. Yes, some of the younger initiates and the older mothers occasionally debated if that _should_ be the way things were, but that _was_ the way things were.

"You see, the valley practices freedom of religion," Thess continued casually. "There were so many refugees, from so many cultures, that picking one state religion that wouldn't cause riots was impossible when the Commander was made Lord of the Valley. Eventually, the Templars decided that as long as the dangers of magic were properly guarded against, there was little harm in allowing mages from the village to have families, provided they serve as knights and learn to properly master their power. Demon-free, guaranteed."

If Knight-Commander Greagoir had been a weaker man, he might have felt a desire to sit down. _Free mages_. That was what the boy was saying. Free, legal, armed mages. True, they had to pass a Circle-style Harrowing, but they were then given free reign.

"Can the mages among you become officers?" Greagoir asked.

"Anyone can, if they pass the entry exams," Thess replied.

"Do you know your Commandments, Knight-Ensign?" asked the Templar.

"You're about to cite 'magic is meant to serve man', aren't you?" he said. "The interpretation in the valley, among Andrasteans, is basically 'that Commandment refers to magic conferring power over others automatically, as it does in Tevinter'. We believe that magic is a tool, like a keen mind or a good eye, that is conferred at birth. As long as care is taken in its use, it is not inherently evil. It is when magic is used to oppress that problems occur."

"You said the knights only let in the best," said Greagoir, still very wary. "What if a mage can't pass your tests?"

"Then they stay in the magic wing, researching, never serving in the field," said Thess. "If they don't want to be a bookworm, then they can serve in a support role - a cook, a smith, a builder - but they still have to submit for regular checks on their magic."

Greagoir mulled that over for a few seconds. It _seemed_ like a system Templars might set up, if they were desperate for unity in the face of a Blight and needed the support of their mages. It had simply become accidentally permanent. But there was one outstanding question.

"What about blood magic?"

Thess hesitated. "Um," he said.

Greagoir locked eyes with him again. "What about blood magic?" he repeated.

"We...um...have _very strict_ laws about it," said Thess.

Greagoir had his sword drawn and was pinning Thess to the ground with a blade to his throat before the startled young knight could react.

"It's legal?" the Templar hissed.

"Not the way you think," croaked the Knight-Ensign. "Our mages are allowed to burn their own blood for the increased power levels, and are allowed to cast blood magic-based spells. However, demonology, mind control, even using another's blood, it's all illegal. Instant death penalty. No excuse, even in combat."

Greagoir was suddenly dragged backwards by the shoulders and someone wearing plate gauntlets punched him hard in the face. He felt himself being disarmed, and struggled to get his feet under him.

As his head cleared, he saw Cadmus and three other knights coming into focus.

"If you lay another hand upon a Frost Knight, your life is forfeit," said Cadmus. "You accepted our Commander's hospitality, and you have just betrayed it. You are no longer protected."

Greagoir slowly stood up, feeling something wet trickle down his face. "What happens now?" he asked.

"Dwynn will decide."

* * *

The throne room felt much colder this time around. It felt more austere, fewer braziers were lit, and there were more guards and fewer Templars.

Dwynn sat on the throne and looked down at the Knight-Commander, who was standing, manacled, before him. There were several Frost Knights around Greagoir, including Cadmus and Thess. His nose was bleeding, but not broken, and he had a cut and developing bruise over his right eye. He was glaring at the Lord of the Frost with considerable venom.

"I invited you into my home," Dwynn began. "I offered you hospitality. _You_ attacked my knights."

"You are harbouring blood mages," said Greagoir. "It is my duty to kill them and arrest those who harbour them, for the safety of Fereldan."

"It's _our_ duty to protect all in this valley from all who would harm them," said Cadmus, "and right now that's you."

"We're also not covered by Chantry law, stiffneck, you have no power here," added another knight.

Dwynn held up his hand and the room fell silent.

"If I let you stay, Templar, you will be patient. Stay your blade until _after_ I-"

A series of three horn blasts split the air. The signal repeated a few seconds later.

"Intruders on the path!" came the call. "More outsiders coming!"

Dwynn turned his gaze on the Templar. "Friends of yours?" he asked icily.

"No," replied Greagoir. "All my men are in the valley already."

Dwynn stood up. "Detachment to the pass!" he bellowed. "To arms!"

* * *

When Thom returned he was followed by four people.

Greagoir had been moved over to one side of the hall, to make room for more pressing concerns - his manacles had been released, but he was still disarmed and under guard.

The four wore robes or light leather armour, and each of them carried a staff. Their leader was easy to spot - he was walking in the lead with the distinctive swagger of those on a newfound power trip.

"Commander, allow me to introduce Daveth, representing Senior Enchanter Antony of the Mages' Collective," said Thom.

"I am Lord of the Frost," Dwynn said. "I offer you food, drink and hospitality."

"Well," said Daveth, his voice dripping with barely-suppressed contempt, "hospitality from someone with an army of Templars on his lawn? Now that _is_ unexpected." He turned to face a knight. "You! Fetch some ale for me, and be quick."

The soldier snorted, but turned and headed for the door.

Daveth spared a glance over the other occupants of the throne room. His sneer only deepened as he saw Greagoir. The Templar met the glare calmly and confidently.

"Nice shiner," Daveth spat, gesturing to his eye and turning away.

A knight-steward appeared, holding a flagon of ale. Daveth grabbed it, downed it in one and tossed the pitcher back at its bearer before smacking his lips. "I've had better, but it'll do," he said.

"Why are you here?" demanded Dwynn.

"Simple, really," said Daveth, walking up to the throne. "We want a place to wait out the war. And you're going to give us one."

"Why would I?" Dwynn replied. "You bring war with you."

"Because I am a mage," said Daveth confidently, "and I'm asking _politely_."

So quickly it could barely be seen, Daveth whipped a small blade across his right palm, then briefly rubbed his hands together. The blood coating them began to steam, and his eyes glowed dimly.

"Let all mages in this little kingdom see who truly holds the power, Templar lover!" Daveth shouted, and brought his hand to bear on Dwynn. "_Free us_!"

The air thrummed with the power Daveth unleashed - blood magic, meant for mind domination, gave the entire throne room's atmosphere a coppery taste.

Several of the knights drew weapons, and Greagoir readied himself. Even unarmed, he could still slow the maleficar down...

Dwynn sat there calmly, as though watching someone try to solve an impossible puzzle.

After a few seconds, Daveth gave up and dropped his arm. The blood mage had extremely shocked expression on his face.

Dwynn narrowed his eyes at him, and the throne room suddenly felt much smaller than it was. Daveth, realising too late that he'd riled a power he didn't understand, tried to back away, but Dwynn slammed his fist onto his armrest.

The blood mage was ensnared in a fountain of icy liquid. It was a simple enough spell, known to Circle mages as 'Winter's Grasp', but Dwynn was using it in a way Greagoir had never seen.

Ice wrapped around Daveth's body like fingers or vines, growing into place and holding him. The bonds then contracted, forcing the mage to his knees.

Dwynn stood up, drawing his sword soundlessly from its sheath as he did so.

The weapon was a longsword, close to four feet from tip to crossguard with a wide blade and a series of lyrium-etched runes inscribed near the hilt. The blade itself bore a faint blue tint, and the hilt was worked bronze with a wire-wrapped black leather grip.

"Daveth of the Mages' Collective!" boomed Dwynn's voice, "Thou doth stand accused of thrice attacking me, against the law of hospitality!"

Greagoir noted the shift to more archaic speech - though, if he remembered correctly, 'thee' and 'thou' were meant for close family and friends or those you saw as inferior. Dwynn was abandoning politeness altogether. A more distant part of his mind noted that this was the single longest sentence he'd heard the Lord of the Frost utter.

One of Daveth's fellows attempted to step forward and render aid, but stopped when he heard a faint hiss of leather on steel as every other knight in the room drew their weapons on him.

Daveth tried to speak, but the ice was constricting and he couldn't get the breath. His hands were encased in thick ice, and he couldn't cast without them.

"Thou hast attacked my mind! Thou hast attacked my authority! Thou hast attacked my laws! Thrice thou hast struck me. For this, I sentence thee, Daveth of the Collective, to death!"

The mages shouted cries of protest as Dwynn strode forwards, raised his sword over Daveth's kneeling form, and removed the blood mage's head with a single two-handed stroke.

The wound appeared to freeze as the blade passed through it. There was little blood, and what little there was came off in shards instead of drops.

Dwynn returned to the throne and sheathed his sword as Greagoir stared. There were several thoughts vying for the Templar's attention.

Dwynn was a mage.

Blood magic was legal here.

Partially, anyway, otherwise the blood mage wouldn't be dead.

Dwynn just executed a maleficar.

There were apostates in the valley who _weren't_ knights.

That wasn't a normal sword.

What was his biggest problem?

Now that was the question. Where should he focus his efforts? Should he focus on the apostates? The knights? Should he be using reason? Attacking?

Dwynn took his seat again.

"No more violence," The Lord of the Frost declared. He pointed at the mages. "You three are unwelcome. Go away. Next time, send someone smarter." He shifted to point at Daveth's body. "Take _that_ with you."

The mages nodded a fearful agreement and picked up their former comrade, two carrying Daveth's body and one carrying his head.

Dwynn turned his gaze on Greagoir, and the Knight-Commander stepped forward.

"What of me?" he asked. "Am I a prisoner?"

The terse ruler mulled this over for a few seconds. "No," he said, "you can go. But no fighting."

"That means you don't start anything with each other," Cadmus said to both Greagoir and the departing mages. "The village is right in the crossfire if you two start a battle, and we don't take kindly to threats. We own these mountains, and the first aggressor gets their entire faction buried under sixty tons of express-delivery snow."

* * *

Mira trudged forlornly back into the makeshift camp the Mages' Collective had set up. It was directly opposite the sprawling Templar encampment on the other side of the path. The two camps were separated by only the road and a few hundred yards of faintly-snowy scrubland dotted with leafless trees.

Behind her, Stanlee and Morris struggled to keep Daveth's body off the ground.

_I should never have let him take over when the knights ambushed us_, she thought. _He was too damn proud, and now he's got himself killed._

The sack one of the knight-stewards had offered her for Daveth's head felt uncomfortable in her hand. But she had the sneaking suspicion the Templar from the fortress was watching her, even though she couldn't see anything, so she kept up an air of confidence.

As her friends in the camp saw her, several called out in greeting or waved. However, when they saw what the boys were carrying, the greetings turned to gasps of horror.

She stopped and turned to Morris. "He needs a funeral," she told him, "before everyone panics. I'll tell Antony."

Morris muttered something vaguely affirmative and headed off into camp.

Mira straightened her robe and took a deep, calming breath.

Antony was a nice guy, but he wasn't going to like this.

* * *

Greagoir thought himself a reasonable and fair man. He didn't like this.

He was sitting in his command tent, pondering his next move.

The others hadn't liked it when he'd told them they couldn't take out the mages, and they'd liked it even less when he told them how he'd picked up the bruise on his face, but they were loyal and well-trained. There were a lot of aggressive mindsets among his men, but nobody was likely to do anything unusually stupid. Especially not when it would incur an avalanche.

Ser Tocter was reading him a watch schedule for tonight, but the Knight-Commander wasn't really listening. He was trying to work out exactly what his duty _was_ in this situation.

Should he try to fight everyone? No, that was suicidal - there were just too many people in the valley. Numbers alone did not win battles, but they helped to no end. Should he form a truce with the mages to attack the Frost Knights? Or perhaps the other way around?

Were the Frost Knights his enemies? That was the real question. They were flouting every law of magic he knew, but when confronted by a maleficar they reacted exactly as he would have - swift immobilisation followed by swift death. The magic they used was certainly _controlled_, if not his way. On the other hand they were largely an unknown factor - Greagoir knew where he stood with the apostates, but there was no telling what the Frost Knights would do next.

So, what was he to do? What did his duty to the Maker dictate?

Greagoir continued pondering this as he cleaned his sword, polished his armour, ate his dinner and fell into a fitful sleep.

_What was he going to do?_

* * *

Antony was sitting in his tent, reading _Hard in Hightown_.

Donnen had just stumbled across a particularly nasty murder and was about to piece together the conspiracy that Antony had figured out six chapters ago when Mira stuck her head through the tent flaps.

"Come in," the enchanter said, idly flipping a bookmark ribbon into the pages and setting the novel aside.

Antony was not the traditional image of a senior enchanter. He was in his late thirties with a lantern jaw and clear green eyes. His hair was a pale brown, cut short and wild - it gave him a somewhat boyish look. He had a few small stains on the robes he wore over his soft leather armour - though whether they were from potion splashes or dropped lunch, none could tell.

"Enchanter," Mira began, "I'm afraid I don't have good news."

"News is news, Mira," he replied. "There's no good or bad with news."

"Daveth tried blood magic on the Frost Knights, and...well..." She held out the sack to him.

Antony took a few seconds to peer inside.

"...That _is_ bad news," he conceded. "Is the plan salvageable?"

"It might be," said Mira. "If it makes you feel any better about our chances, the Templars didn't hit it off with them any better. They had a Knight-Commander with a massive black eye in the throne room."

Antony nodded. "Perhaps I should handle this myself?" he mused. "After all, if the leader of the Templars is negotiating with them, our own leader should at least be present. Don't you agree?"

"I'll tell the others," said Mira. "We'll start talking to them again tomorrow."

* * *

Dwynn stood on the battlements of the Fortress and looked out at the valley he commanded. The icy wind didn't bother him as it blew past - years of working here had let him get used to it.

His eyes were drawn to the flickering fires in the camps near the opposite side of the valley. What new disasters would the mages and Templars unleash tomorrow? They'd been here for a day, and already there had been one fight and one death. The valley was a closed community - there were only so many deaths they could take.

His eyes flicked downward, to the village. If it had a name, it had long ago been forgotten by the residents. It was just 'the village' now. There was only one in the valley, and that was as far as most residents needed to plan. He could see lights going out as farming families went home for the day. There was the occasional glint of metal as one of his knights moved about in town, either keeping the peace (especially around the pub) or heading home - a few Frost Knights lived with families down there.

Finally, Dwynn turned to Cadmus, who was standing to his right.

"Is the night watch on duty?" the Commander asked.

"Keen-eyed and heavily armed," replied Cadmus. "I'll take first watch, Eron'll relieve me."

Dwynn looked out over the valley again. "Keep a weather eye out," he said. Then he turned towards the ladder, the keep and eventually the Commander's quarters.

"Sleep well, ser," called Cadmus.

Dwynn didn't reply. Whatever tomorrow brought, it was their duty to stand between the valley and everyone else. But as for how the Frost Knights would go about it?

They would just have to wait and see.

* * *

AN: And so we have our dilemma. The plot thickens.


End file.
